A Candy Cane Cat-astrophe Read online

  A Candy Cane Cat-astrophe

  Meow for Murder 5

  Addison Moore

  Bellamy Bloom

  Contents

  Connect with Addison Moore

  Book Description

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Books by Addison Moore and Bellamy Bloom

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Copyright © 2020 by Addison Moore, Bellamy Bloom

  Edited by Paige Maroney Smith

  Cover by Stunning Book Cover

  Hollis Thatcher Press, LTD.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, and characters are figments of the author’s imagination. The author holds all rights to this work. It is illegal to reproduce this novel without written expressed consent from the author herself.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This eBook is for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase any additional copies for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Copyright © 2020 by Addison Moore, Bellamy Bloom

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  Book Description

  A highly inaccurate vision. A grumpy writer. And a corpse. Welcome to Starry Falls. Running from the mob can be murder.

  It’s Christmastime in Starry Falls, the annual tree lighting ceremony is underway, and the entire town has gathered on Main Street to witness the illuminated spectacle. But when I spot a body tangled in lights, the night takes an unexpected homicidal turn. Not only did my visions let me down in that department, but I didn’t see two wise guys coming our way either. Things with the mob are starting to get a little too close for comfort, and a part of me wonders if I’ll be able to stick around in this cute little town to see the new year. The snow is falling, the Italian cookies are baking, and it’s beginning to look a lot like murder.

  Confession: I’m no psychic. But I can sort of see the future, albeit not accurately. And you better believe I’ve never let that little detail stop me from prognosticating my way into a pickle. So when I ticked off the mob, the feds, and my wily ex, I decided to take my Uncle Vinnie’s advice and start over with a new name and new hair color while relying on my old shtick—getting my visionary wires crossed and putting myself in danger.

  Chapter 1

  “Two words: bare-chested Santas,” Stephanie says as she hops in front of me.

  “That’s three words, and I’ve got a one-word answer for you: no.”

  About six different cats let out a sharp yowl in agreement with me. Either that or in rebellion because they happen to agree with Stephanie.

  My own cat, Pixie, who sits strapped to my chest in a baby sling, looks rather bored and offers no real opinion on the subject. She’s a fuzzy white Scottish fold—or at least she was that pristine color until some kid baptized her with a cup full of fruit punch and she’s been pink ever since.

  It’s the first Friday night in December, the snow is falling, and all of Starry Falls has shown up right here on Main Street for the annual tree lighting ceremony. My sister and I are standing in a booth outside of the Mortimer Manor, along with the other waitresses who work with us at the Manor Café, peddling the holy trinity of the holidays—hot cocoa, mistletoe, and Italian Christmas cookies.

  The Mortimer Manor is rich with felines, and thanks to the fluffy white stuff icing up our world outside, just about every single one of them is currently holed up in that manor. The owner of that haunted mansion might be flat broke—a new endeavor for her, seeing that she’s a socialite used to rolling around on a bed of billions—and yet feeding every stray cat in the great state of Vermont is sort of her contribution to society at this point. That and the comfort we’re peddling on the side.

  “Comfort?” I hold up a cup full of steaming hot cocoa spiked with whiskey, aka comfort.

  It’s a well-known fact by the ladies of this sleepy town that if you head to the Mortimer Manor for its once a week crafts spectacular, otherwise known as Stitch Witchery, you can get a spot of comfort in your tea to take the edge off your surly existence.

  Of course, that little spot of comfort will cost you, but none of the women seem to mind. And tonight, in addition to the comfort spiked cocoa, Opal and I also thought it would be a great idea to sell sprigs of mistletoe with a little paper tag attached that reads find someone to share this with. Those make-out magnets have been selling like hotcakes, too.

  A couple of older women wrapped in wool coats and scarves step up to the booth, and my newly minted bestie Tilly Teasdale exchanges hard liquor disguised as a common holiday libation in lieu of cold, hard cash.

  “Let’s not forget to add a candy cane,” I say, quickly dunking the red and white striped sugar sticks into their drinks. “If you stir it up a bit, it’ll give it a nice peppermint bite.”

  Pixie belts out a sharp meow as if agreeing with me. She’s been sniffing around the candy canes with a peculiar interest. I think maybe because Stephanie left one next to her water bowl last week and she still doesn’t know what to make of it.

  The women take off, and Stephanie makes a face at me.

  “What?” I ask my younger, far more spicier sister.

  Stephanie is newer to Starry Falls than I am. I showed up last spring while running from the feds and the mob—after my nitwit ex-boyfriend coerced me into stealing from the Moretti crime family, who, in turn, were stealing those exact same funds from the feds. Ironically, it was me and my voracious purchasing power who tipped off the feds to the whole crooked operation. Suffice it to say, the feds want me behind bars—much like my ex—and the Morettis want me somewhere a little more permanent with a lot less oxygen and not nearly as nice a view.

  My name is Stella Santini—or at least it was, until I took on the secret identity of Bowie Binx. I’ve got long black hair, light brown eyes, stand at an average height of five-foot-five, and I can see the future. Odd, I know. That whole future thing has sort of been a quirk since birth, but I haven’t taken my strange abilities and opened up shop or anything. I treat it more or less as a whisper from the big guy upstairs—as if He’s trying to give me the heads-up on a situation or two. The only setback being, I never seem to get the facts right when interpreting those visions.

  Stephanie is my doppelgänger, with the exception her hair is shorter, so is her temper, level of patience, and ability to control her libido.

  “You’re forgetting to upsell my Christmas cookies!” A genuine fire beams from my sister’s eyes as she boils over at the prospect of her cookies going uneaten. “Don’t let this night end in tragedy.”

>   And believe me, if those cookies don’t sell, the tragedy would be real. Stephanie and I come from a long line of Italian women who pride themselves on their holiday baking alone. Steph and I worked hard all week to make sure there would be more than enough sweet Italian treats to go around. We’ve got pizzelles, Christmas cookies with anise, chocolate drizzled biscotti, mini cannolis, rainbow cookies, the all too cheerful bones of the dead, and a half dozen more that are lighting up my senses.

  “Don’t worry, Lola. I’ve got you covered.” Tilly leans her way. “Cookies!” she howls out at the burgeoning crowd. “Get your oven fresh holiday cookies!”

  And just like that, an entire thicket of bodies swoops this way.

  “You’re a saint, Tilly!” Steph jumps up and down before knocking back a cup of comfort, straight no cocoa.

  Tilly might be a saint, but she’s just as big a sinner. She’s about my age, late twenties, about five inches shorter, and has dark brown hair with chunky blonde highlights. She can give my sister a run for her hormonal money when it comes to men, and she has the result of a teen pregnancy to prove it. Her daughter, Jessie, is sixteen and hell on heels. Suffice it to say, the apple didn’t roll too far from the hot-to-trot tree.

  “Stella—” Stephanie whispers, and I nudge her hard with my elbow.

  “It’s Bowie,” I hiss back. “Get it straight, Lola.”

  When I lived back in New Jersey, just hours prior to my imminent arrest, or homicide, my Uncle Vinnie provided me with an all new identity, gave me a beat-up Honda I now call Wanda, and told me to take a hike to the great White North. But Wanda had other plans.

  Apparently, Canada was too far off her radar, and she decided to malfunction just as I rolled off the highway and landed in Starry Falls.

  I haven’t left since. My new name, Bowie Binx, took some getting used to. Taking on a new identity and keeping my head below the radar isn’t the easiest way to live, but it just might be the only way to keep myself alive. Steph here isn’t wanted by anyone. She’s basically holing up in Starry Falls with me for sport.

  And since Stephanie is just visiting, and has no such walking papers from Uncle Vinnie, she’s decided to christen herself Lola in the spirit of not blowing my cover.

  Uncle Vinnie and I worked out a code word that I could give him to ensure everything is right as rain in my world, and that code word would be meow. So I send my sweet uncle a small cross-stitched pillow about once a month with that four-letter feline inspired word inscribed on it. And ever since Steph has been here with me, I’ve cross-stitched that word on there twice.

  “Bowie,” Stephanie hisses back. “Check it out.” She points to the oversized evergreen to our left that we’re all anxious to see, lit up in all its Christmas glory. “Isn’t that your man talking to Opal and that snake, Regina?”

  Opal would be Opal Mortimer, the disenfranchised socialite who owns the manor behind me. The Mortimer Manor sits crooked on a hill right here at the end of Main Street. If this was the middle of the afternoon, you could see the twin falls buried in the hillside just behind it, which gives the town its cozy moniker.

  I glance back at the manor festooned with garland, cheery red bows, and colorful lights strung up around the upper and lower levels.

  Ever since Thanksgiving Day, all of Starry Falls has been blessed with a blanket of white, and I’ll admit, it adds just the right holiday sparkle and shine that old haunted mansion and this old town were in need of. Rows of oversized candy canes are staked into the lawn around the periphery of the manor, and it all gives it a glorious holiday appeal. The manor itself looks as if it was brought over brick by brick from England, with its cathedral windows and spires protruding from it.

  Last October, a woman by the name of Hazel Newton was killed on the grounds, and her ghost has been haunting the manor ever since. In fact, I see her glowing countenance in the attic window now, so I give her a cheery wave and she waves right back.

  My gaze shifts over to the mammoth evergreen christened as the town’s holiday tree, and sure enough, I spot Shepherd Wexler talking to Opal, Regina, and an older man in a long black coat.

  Regina Valentine is the token mean girl of Starry Falls, and as much as I want to dislike her for the general misery she’s already caused me, if she was any nicer, I probably wouldn’t have been able to stay in this state, let alone this town. It was Regina’s temper that got her fired from the Manor Café the very same day I rolled into it. And Opal promptly gave me her position. Opal also helped me land a roof over my head by asking Shep to rent the cabin directly behind his to yours truly.

  Shep.

  I give a dreamy sigh as I look his way.

  Shepherd Wexler is a tall wall of muscles who just so happens to pound out a best-selling novel every year or so. And on top of being a number one thriller author, he’s recently gone back to work as a homicide detective in the next town over, Woodley. We started making out a few months ago, and our greedy lips have never looked back.

  “Who cares if he’s talking to Regina?” I shrug it off. “Shep and I are solid.”

  Tilly gasps. “That means you’ve done the deed? Congratulations, Bowie. And here I thought you’d hold out on him forever.” She quickly pours a shot of whiskey and sets it in front of me.

  “No thanks, I really shouldn’t.” I’m not a big drinker. Actually, I stay as far away as I can from anything harder than the caffeine in my coffee. Let’s just say it takes my supernatural abilities and supersizes them to frightening extremes—think active hallucinations meet wildest fears.

  Stephanie laughs. “What my sister means, Tilly, is that she didn’t earn it—you know, in the carnal sense.” She takes the cup and downs the contents before letting out a hair-raising howl. “Bowie? Why don’t you pull Shep into the nearest bush and give him an early Christmas present?”

  “Would you hush?” I swat her. “This is a family show in the event you haven’t noticed.” I nod to the throng of bodies bobbing up and down the snowy-lined road before us. All of Main Street is festooned with garland and white lights. Giant candy apple red bows dot each streetlamp and people dressed as Dickens characters stroll around from business to business singing Christmas carols at top volume. It’s equal parts adorable and grating. But then, that’s been my take on Christmas carols whether or not I’m witnessing a live action spectacle for as long as I can remember.

  “Shep and I are taking it slow,” I say, giving Pixie a quick scratch between her ears, and she rewards me by way of purring like a jet engine. Pixie just so happens to be the cat I share with Shep. She’s more or less our fur-child.

  “What? Slow?” Stephanie is quick to balk at my prudent behavior. Some things never change. Not that I’ve always been prudent. “You’re like fifty,” she points out. “You better get a move on if you want to start shooting out adorable stud muffin puppies. You’re going to want a solid litter, if not two. A man like Shep is destined to have beautiful babies. Don’t worry, Bowie. Your genetic contributions can be fixed by way of extensive plastic surgery.”

  “I’m like twenty-seven,” I’m quick to inform her. “And I’m not in a hurry to produce a furry little litter. By the way, we have the same genetic makeup. If you insult me, you’re insulting yourself. Besides, Shep and I aren’t diving into the deep end together just yet. We’re sort of wading in.”

  Tilly grunts. “This is Shep we’re talking about. You should totally dive into the deep end.”

  “Yeah.” Stephanie slings an arm across Tilly’s shoulders in a show of camaraderie. “Have all the puppies you want. Heck, if you trap him, he might even make an honest woman out of you.”

  “I’m not trapping a man, Lola,” I’m right back to hissing at her.

  Besides, I can’t marry Shep. He’s a man of the badge. And he’s a best-selling author. I’m a felon on the run. I could take down both of his careers in a single bound.

  Stephanie looks to Tilly. “She’s always been a slacker.”

  “I am not a slacker.
” I swat her. “The old me would have bagged and tagged Shepherd Wexler a long time ago. The new me has her feet set on the straight and narrow.”

  Tilly knows about the fact I have visions every now and again that allow me to catch a sneak peek into the future, but she has no idea that I’m a wanted felon. Opal knows all about my supernatural secret, too. Ironically, Shep doesn’t have a clue about my visionary standing, but a few months back he suspected I was keeping another whopper from him. He already decoded the fact that I’m parading around with a fake identity. He knows all about my real name and history, and strangely he seems to have made peace with it. But I’ve been shy to tell him about my prognosticating predicament, partially because I’m terrified he’ll decide to take his mouthwatering kisses roadshow elsewhere. It’s not an easy thing to hear.

  I take a deep breath as I look to my sister. “And it’s not nice to call people slackers. You should really work on building women up instead of tearing them down.”

  She chokes and sputters. “What? I’ll have you know I’ve been building women up and slapping down men for years.” Something catches her eye to the right, and her jaw unhinges. “That’s them.” She’s nudges me with her elbow. “See those two hot men with the Santa hats? I had a vision of the two of them while I was plating the anise cookies this afternoon.”

  Stephanie has the gift, too. Ever since we were little girls we’ve had what my Nana Rose liked to call the shakes. Technically, it’s more or less a shiver. And when you get down to it, there’s a warm, fuzzy feeling involved that makes me want to forget about the world around me for a moment and retreat to the dark recesses of my mind where a thought plays out like a movie and I see things. And trust me when I say, I have been wrong about interpreting the things I see on more than one occasion. Stephanie’s track record isn’t so hot either.